Peter Corris - Open File

I knew the voice and as my vision cleared I recognised the face. Billy ‘Sharkey’ Finn had been briefly middleweight champion of Australia five years ago before the booze and drugs got to him. He lost the title and a few more bouts, some certainly thrown for a payoff from the gamblers, and became a standover man for various heavy Sydney crims. Sharkey was fat now, a heavyweight for sure, but he was still strong. In my struggling condition he had no trouble half dragging, half carrying me to a car that drew up nearby. He held me up with one hand, opened the door and shoved me into the back seat.

The man sitting there was impeccably dressed in a lightweight suit and he was barbered and manicured to within an inch of his life-Wilson Stafford, a ‘colourful racing identity’ to the tabloids. We’d crossed paths once years back. Stafford used to do some of his own muscle work then. I’d helped a pub owner keep Stafford’s rigged pokies out of his Summer Hill hotel. The car was a Daimler with leather seats and a bar and telephone. Stafford smiled at me with his perfectly capped teeth.

‘We meet again.’

I was still sucking in air as Sharkey flopped into the front passenger seat.

‘If that fat tank artist wants to come at me from the front,’ I said, ‘I’ll make him uglier than he already is.’

‘You hear that, Sharkey?’ Stafford said.

‘I heard. Any time, Hardy. Any time.’

Stafford took a cigarette from a gold case and lit it with a gold lighter. He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt, showing me the solid gold monogrammed links. ‘I’d like to see it. But not now. I took the opportunity to pay you back for the trouble you caused me, Hardy. But we’ve got other business today.’

‘What would that be?’

‘That cunt Paul Hampshire’s back. Bald bastard’s wearing a fuckin’ wig. And you’ve seen him. One of my people spotted you and that heap of shit you drive in Rose Bay where Hampshire was staying.’

‘So?’

‘So the dumb prick was slow getting the information to me and the cunt’s not there now and I want to know where he is.’

‘Why?’

‘Why d’you fuckin’ think? He owes me money.’

‘I get the impression he owes money to quite a few people.’

‘Not like he does with me. He ripped me off big time and then shot through to America.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Don’t be smart with me unless you want more of what you just had.’

‘I’d be ready for him now and I’d make it a bit harder. Your driver doesn’t look like much and you’re well past it, Wilson.’

Finn half turned and showed the business end of a pistol, silencer fitted.

‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘But I can’t help you. Hampshire’s wife was murdered yesterday and right now he’s talking to the police-dunno who, dunno where.’

‘Fuck,’ Stafford said. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because he rang me this morning and I told him to get in touch with them. I didn’t know he had a problem with you. I wish he’d told me and I’d have been ready for the canvas back kid there.’

‘Hardy, you-’

Stafford cut him off. ‘Shut up, Sharkey. I have to think about this. I thought he’d hired you as protection.’

‘No.’

‘Why, then?’

‘That’s between me and him, but it’s got nothing to do with you.’

Stafford smoked his cigarette down to the filter and stubbed it out. It was the lunch hour and there were a few people in the street now. Finn put the gun away. I opened the door.

‘If that’s all, I’ll be going.’

Stafford lit another cigarette. ‘You can give Hampshire a message. I-’

I gripped his wrist, shook it and he dropped his lighter. ‘Fuck you. You say you held a grudge against me and got even. Well, I’ve got a grudge against you and Sharkey now and I’ll leave you a little something to think about.’

I got out of the car, took my Swiss army knife from a pocket, opened the short blade and slid it quickly into both whitewalled back tyres. Then I joined the people walking towards the steps leading down to William Street. Petty maybe, but satisfying.

I bought a salad roll in William Street and went back to the office. I had a drop of red to wash it down and as an aid to thought. I had an old sawn-off shotgun I’d taken from a disgruntled client. There were no shells then or now, but I put it on the desk anyway. Not that I really expected trouble, but with someone barely under control like Sharkey Finn, it pays to be cautious.

I tried to remember exactly what Stafford’s reaction had been when I told him about Angela Pettigrew. Had he looked surprised? I couldn’t remember, there was too much going on. But now there was plenty to think about. If Hampshire had enemies like Wilson Stafford, he’d pulled a lot of wool over my eyes. He was in serious danger. Did the police know anything about his activities? Watson had played his cards very close to his chest and I felt dumb about being so much in the dark. There were candidates now for Angela’s killer and maybe whatever it was Hampshire had done had implications for what had happened to Justin. It wasn’t looking good from any angle.

Barry Templeton was a sworn enemy of Wilson Stafford. He was more intelligent than Stafford, marginally less ruthless, and a lot better company. We met occasionally when I played tennis at White City with Frank Parker. Templeton was a good player and it amused him to belong to the same club as a senior police officer. They got along okay in a wary kind of way and the three of us had the odd drink, with Frank being careful not to let Templeton pay for anything. I wasn’t so circumspect, but I could see Frank’s point, with police corruption always in the news and the media always on the lookout.

Templeton owned a restaurant in Paddington and he was invariably there at night, enjoying the food, keeping an eye on the quality of the service and no doubt doing deals that wouldn’t bear a lot of scrutiny. He’d crossed swords with Stafford over shares in a couple of racehorses and they’d never been reconciled.

Rudi’s, as Templeton’s restaurant was called, was in Oxford Street and was well patronised by people like himself: certain cops and lawyers, journalists, media stars and wannabes. I’d been there a few times, running interference for some hard types who felt in need of a little backup-unnecessarily as it turned out. The food was good, the atmosphere smoky and the wine expensive. The meal was going to put a hole in the money Hampshire had paid me but I wasn’t feeling well disposed towards him at that point. I booked a table for one for nine pm; Templeton dined late.

‘What name, sir?’

‘Cliff Hardy. You might tell Barry I want to have a word with him.’

I went home to shine my shoes, look for a clean shirt and brush down my suit. You have to look your best at Rudi’s. I soaked in the bath for a long time to let the hot water ease the pain in my kidney and below the belt. Sharkey was an expert at fouling opponents and he’d got me with two good ones, but they hadn’t been as solid as you’d expect from a professional. He was fat and slow and lacking a bit of zip. I pissed and didn’t pass blood-Sharkey had lost his touch. I fancied my chances if we met up again on a level playing field. The gun was a worry, though.

I lay in the cooling water and thought about my conversation with Kathy and our earlier encounter. My reaction was encouraging and confirmed that, again, Sharkey hadn’t done the damage he might have. I shaved, dressed and treated myself to a solid gin and tonic to clean the pipes, stimulate the appetite and console myself. Going out to eat solo isn’t much fun, but with luck the evening would pay dividends. And I remembered that the barramundi at Rudi’s was very good.